Page 59 of Heart Over Heels

With nothing better to do while waiting for the car, I gave him my attention.

“Are you certain there wasnothingelse?” he asked.

The question removed all doubt.

He knew about the contract. Expected it.

The elevator’s doors glided open in promise of escape. I held the angel’s gaze, searching his face for either concern or command—and finding both carved into the furrow of his brow.

“Quite sure, sir,” I told him. “And there won’t be.”

His wings gave the slightest shiver, but he said nothing more.

Secrecy ran rampant in this place and among these people, but I lacked the patience for it. My training had taught me to confront problems directly, to stitch what bled before it could kill.

That was triage. That was where I' excelled.

But as I exited Antonella’s penthouse suite, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I hadn’t closed a wound, rather I’d opened one, and it was a bleeder.

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

Darby

“Darb? What the hell are you wearing?”

Colt’s shrill whistle preceded the question. I whipped around to find him in the doorway, stripped down to boxers and boots with his shower tote tucked under his arm.

I had overtaken the bathroom counter, crowding the area around the sinks with picks and combs, a flat iron and curling iron both radiating heat, and a roll of wig tape.

The wig itself was already affixed to my head, white like my own hair but with extra fluff on the sides where a pair of buns sat nicely atop my horns. It made my head look a little oversized, but that was cute, right? Babies and those anime characters Elliot liked were big-eyed and bobble-headed. It made them look innocent, which was exactly the vibe I was going for.

I’d chosen to get ready in the bathroom out of sheer convenience. Outlets were close at hand, and it eliminated the need to trek back and forth between my bedroom and the downstairs dressing room. But the look on Colt’s face had me regretting that as he wandered closer while openly staring.

“That better have been a whistle of appreciation,” I warned. “And it’s a dress, dumbass. You know that.”

I smoothed the denim mini dress, hoping it passed for “real casual” as Mercer had described. He hadn’t given me much else to go on, so I did my own research. An internet inquiry yielded pictures of several VFW Posts, and I was pretty sure I’d found the one we were headed to. According to their social media account, Bingo Night was a regular occurrence, as were chili cook-offs, potluck dinners, and something called Bunco.

The dress was a last-minute add since most of my wardrobe leaned… let’s sayspicierthan what seemed appropriate for a room full of octogenarians and good old boys. But my problems weren’t limited to my clothes.

Demons were still a novelty on Earth, and not a popular one. Sin City made sense as a capital for the damned, but in the suburbs, a warm welcome wasn’t guaranteed. Not to mention that the VFW crowd was primarily older folks who were set in their ways and unlikely to roll out the red carpet for a demigirl demon in ruffles and garter socks.

So I toned it down. Made myself more digestible for… mature palates.

“I meant the thing on your head,” Colt said, having abandoned his shower plans in favor of needling me. His boots scuffed against the tile as he came closer and then set his tote on the counter.

His nose wrinkled. “It looks like a lil’ dog. What happened to your horns?”

I snagged a comb off the counter while leveling a glare at him in the mirror. “Saysyou?”

His lips twisted as he nudged the brim of his hat, feeling for the stumps of his own horns hidden in his chestnut curls. “Yeah, but you wouldn’t…” His frown deepened. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s just a costume,” I replied. “We wear them all the time.”

The comb was put to use smoothing flyaways as Colt crossed his arms and slouched against the counter.

“Customers ain’t gonna like it,” he said after a moment. “They dig the demon shit. It’s niche.”